Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

I walked toward the lagoon, where a little rocky beach provided a landing, surrounded by overgrown bushes. Now I could see the house across the street from the Terrells’ place, a big two-story Victorian. Any one of the upstairs front windows would have provided an excellent view of the Terrells’ house and yard, but the police report said none of the neighbors had been home when the Terrells died.

When I returned to the house, the surviving Terrells were ready to leave. I set the alarm on my way out. Eric drove a boxy silver SUV, new and expensive, with a license-plate holder from an Oakland dealership. He’d parked to the left of my Toyota, so close it was as though he was marking territory by taking up as much of the driveway as possible. He must be one of those irritating people who parked his car straddling two spaces in parking lots, so that his car wouldn’t get hit. I squeezed into the gap between the vehicles. When I opened my car door, it brushed against his.

“Watch it,” Eric said sharply. “Do you have any idea how much it costs to repair the finish on one of these?”

I didn’t say anything. It’s childish, I know, but I found myself fighting down the urge to key his car. It would have been enormously satisfying to scratch that expensive silver finish. But I didn’t.

“That’s their version,” Pamela Allen said that evening when I told her what Eric and Erin Terrell had said about their father’s plans to divorce Pamela’s mother. “Mom and Claude were happy, as far as I know.”

We were in the living room of Pamela’s house in Hayward. Her husband Ralph and their young daughter were outside, washing the family car.

“Would your mother have confided in you?” I asked.

“I don’t think she would have kept something like that to herself. On the other hand, she may not have wanted to burden me with her troubles. I have enough of my own right now.” Pamela glanced out at her husband. Did her troubles have something to do with her own marriage?

“Whether they were having problems or not,” she continued, “I can’t imagine Mom killing Claude — or anyone, for that matter. My brother and I were devastated by this. Our father wasn’t around after he and Mom split up. So she was all we had.”

“What about the possibility that Claude killed your mother, then himself?”

She shook her head. “I just can’t see it. I suppose it’s possible, but why? None of this makes any sense.”

“How did you get on with Claude’s children?”

“We weren’t close,” she said. “We tolerated each other for our parents’ sake. Erin and I don’t have much in common. Eric’s a pompous ass. His wife’s all right. I haven’t seen them since shortly after the funeral. Neither Eric nor Erin wanted their father to remarry. They never accepted my mother.”

“This insurance policy leaves you and your brother a lot of money.”

“I know. And we could use it. Six months ago my husband got downsized. My brother’s between jobs. So yes, things are tight right now. We’re living on my salary as a teacher and our savings. That insurance money, and what Mom left us in her will, would really come in handy. But neither Colin nor I had anything to do with Mom’s death.”

“What about Claude’s kids?”

She shrugged. “As far as I know, they had good relations with their father. I don’t think either of them have any financial problems.”

Whether any of the heirs had any financial problems was something I intended to find out. I started a background check on both sets of offspring. Later that day I went back to the neighborhood where Claude and Martha Terrell had lived. The big Victorian across the street, with a view of the Terrells’ yard from its upstairs windows, was owned by the Brandons, who both worked. They hadn’t been home the day of the deaths, and their two teenaged daughters had been in school. I got similar stories at other houses. The only people who were in the neighborhood that day were the housecleaner who had discovered the bodies and the gardener who had called the police.

I met Estrellita Mejia the next day at her Oakland home, as she returned from cleaning other people’s houses. She sat down in her living-room recliner and flipped up the foot rest. “When you called earlier, I didn’t want to talk with you. But I decided I should.”

“Why didn’t you want to talk?” I asked. “Are you afraid of something? Or someone?”

“It’s not that. What happened to the Terrells was awful. It was horrible.” She shuddered. “Finding them like that. I’d like to help. But I wonder if I’m breaking a confidence to talk about them, even under these circumstances.”

That sparked my interest. I wondered what Mrs. Mejia might have overheard in the Terrell household that fell into the category of confidences.

“I know this is difficult for you. But I need some answers. What time did you get there that afternoon?”